


Crazy Hex Girlfriend

by whichstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Costume parties, Cowboy Castiel, Cowboy Dean, Cowboy Hats, Dean Hates Witches, Destiel Halloween Mini Bang, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Halloween, Light Angst, M/M, Monsters, Pining, Season/Series 12, Witches, cowboy costumes, destielhalloweenminibang, everyone is bad at feelings, supernatural canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Dean and Castiel infiltrate an extravagant couples-only Halloween party at the invitation of the party’s host who has been receiving mysterious threats. They patrol the party for hex bags and dark altars, interview suspects, and Dean happily scores a lot of free food. He just wishes he could score with Cas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [Destiel Halloween Mini Bang](http://destielhalloweenminibang.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta readers and amazing human beings, [RedQueensWrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redqueenswrath/pseuds/Redqueenswrath) and [LotrSPNFanGirl](http://lotrspnfangirlgraphics.tumblr.com/). I couldn't have done this without you! Any remaining mistakes are my own. 
> 
> The [art for this challenge](http://lotrspnfangirlgraphics.tumblr.com/post/152123987321/art-for-crazy-hex-girlfriend-by-whichstiel-fic) was created by [LotrSPNFanGirl](http://lotrspnfangirlgraphics.tumblr.com/) and I love it so much!

  
**October 22, 2016**

Downstairs, the door rattled on its hinges. Alexander Dumain groaned and buried his face back into his pillow. He’d declared it a morning off for staff - mostly so he could sleep off the hangover. Tina didn’t get time off, though. Tina would get it. He screwed his eyes shut, intent on becoming once more dead to the world. 

The door rattled again under a fresh onslaught of aggressive knocking. Dumain moved just enough to free his mouth from the bedding and yelled. "Tina! Get the damned door!" The knocking faded into silence. That bit of delegation done, he buried himself once more in his covers. 

When the door resumed its fierce racket, Dumain cursed and flung himself out of bed. "Where the hell is Tina?" he growled to his bathrobe tie as he stumbled from his bedroom and down the sweeping stairwell to the entranceway. Dumain’s annual Halloween ball was happening in a little over a week. Now wasn't the time to slip out for manicures or whatever it was his assistant did during her off duty hours. 

Downstairs, the knocking echoed through the front hallway and he pressed a hand to his temple, feeling his ear drums throb with every beat on the door. He crossed the cold marble foyer, undid the front bolts, and wrenched open the heavy oak door, ready to tear the unnamed - and, as far as he was concerned - imminently fired delivery person a new one. 

The veranda was empty. He frowned and scanned the front yard and the sweeping sides of the house that half enclosed the front courtyard. "Where the hell did you go?" he murmured, a chill chasing up his spine. Now he was fully awake. Gut clenched with dread, he looked down at the front step.

Immediately Dumain jumped back, breath caught in his lungs. "No," he breathed, beginning to tremble. "No no no. Tina!" He backed into the house. "Tina!"

On the front step sat a simple metal bowl, within which were mounded eyeballs of every color, round and protuberant and slick. They were jumbled into the bowl haphazardly, bloody eyestalks trailing over the sides. "Who's out there?" Dumain shouted towards the hedges, his voice cracking in fear. "This isn't funny!" God, those looked like human eyes. He gripped the door and began to close it when something shifted in the bowl. He stood, riveted, as the eyeballs began to rotate stickily against each other until the entire bowl of eyeballs were trained on him. They exploded out suddenly like a fleshy volcano, rolling across the veranda and falling into lines and shapes on the imported field stone. He slammed the door shut and pressed himself against it before running upstairs. On his veranda, dozens of eyeballs spelled: 

Eye see you

LOL

  
  


  
**October 30, 2016**

"You're sure he can handle this, Sam?" Jody Mills asked over speakerphone. 

"You wound me, Jody." Dean grinned as he buttoned a deep brown vest over his loose cotton shirt. "I've been going undercover since I was fourteen. Pretty sure I can handle a Halloween party."

"Wild horses couldn't keep Dean from dressing up in a costume. You have no idea." Sam laughed and ducked as Dean grabbed the remote from the hotel night stand and lobbed it at his head. 

"Hey! I'll have you know I picked this up in 1861. You can't call authentic clothes like this a costume. It's an insult to... It's an insult to history!" Dean breathed on a heavy gold Sheriff's star and polished it on his sleeve before pinning it to the breast of his vest. He patted it proprietarily. 

"You picked it up in the what now?" Jody asked slowly.

"Long story, Jody." Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean's good, though. He'll play the part."

Jody chuckled. "You're right. I probably don't want to know. I was a little more worried about Castiel, to be honest. Claire described him to me as, and I quote, 'a huge dork with zero social skills'. You sure he's not gonna tip off anyone at the party? If this is a witch, it could be your best chance to catch them in person."

"Jody, there is no way in hell I'm going to a 'couples party' with Sam. You couldn't pay me enough." Dean staged a theatrical full body shiver at the idea. 

"Cas is good," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "He's been hunting with us for a while now. I think it'll go okay."

"Hardest part is gonna be getting that dude to relax and enjoy the party once we stop this son of a bitch," Dean said. "We'll get the job done, Jody. Don't worry. Cas'll use his spidey sense to search for hex bags. If there is someone at this party trying to gank the host, we'll find 'em."

"Thanks, boys. Sorry I can't help you out."

"Hey, we understand. Other guests are gonna know who you are. You can't get tied up in this." Dean picked up a boot length oilskin coat and shrugged it on. It swirled dramatically around his ankles as he reached for a cowboy hat perched on one of the beds. "Don't you worry, Sheriff," he drawled as he donned the hat and ran his fingers lightly across the brim. "We won't let you down."

Over the phone, Jody groaned. Sam burst into laughter. "Dork," he said. "We'll keep you updated. Talk to you later." 

Sam hung up as the bathroom door opened. Dean adjusted his hat so it rode low on his brow and turned an easy smile on Castiel as he emerged from the bathroom. Castiel held his trench coat and suit slung over one arm. Instead of his usual attire, he wore slim black jeans held up with a leather belt and oversized buckle, a pair of black boots they'd rustled from a resale shop on the way up to Minnesota, and a black western-style shirt. The fitted clothes brought out a lethal, predatory edge that his habitual flapping trench tended to obscure. Dean tried to ignore the flush that tickled through him. He really tried. His ears burned, hidden by the hat. 

Castiel scowled as he laid his clothing across a chair back. "Claire still thinks I'm a 'dork'?" 

Dean laughed. "Yeah, Captain Air Quotes. Kind of a dork. But not in a bad way."

"I fail to see the compliment." 

Dean punched him on the shoulder, ignoring Castiel's irritated look. "C'mon man. You know she loves you in her own weird way." He picked up a battered black Stetson from the table and handed it to Castiel. "We'd better get going. Party starts soon and we should really canvas the place before all the guests arrive." He waggled his brows. "Gotta make sure all those bedrooms are clear before the party really gets started."

"How would that affect-?"

Sam snorted from his bed and flipped open his laptop. "Not touching that one."

Dean rolled his eyes and opened the motel room door. "Tell you when you're older, Cas."

 

Music blasted through the Impala's speakers when Dean started up the car and turned out onto the highway towards Dumain's estate. He glanced over at Castiel, sitting silently in the passenger seat watching the small town streets give way to wooded highway. "Thanks for doing this, Cas. It's good to..." Dean swallowed and ran his fingers along the steering wheel. "It's really good to see you."

Castiel set his hat on the seat between them. "I'm glad to be of assistance." He sighed and settled back in the seat. "The Lucifer hunt is frustrating."

"Sorry to hear that. Anything we can do to help? You know all you gotta do is ask."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel said softly. "But we've talked about this."

"Yeah I know." For a moment Dean’s mouth hung open as he searched for something else to say. Finally, he shook his head and turned up the music. 

Alexander Dumain lived on a sprawling estate an hour outside of Minneapolis. Dumain's property covered 50 acres of reclaimed farmland and forest and was fronted by a sturdy but purely decorative gray stone wall. Perched along the entire front wall flickered what must have been nearly a hundred jack-o-lanterns. "Can you believe this guy?" Dean asked as he turned into the long drive. "Lives out in the middle of nowhere and blows a wad every year on some stupid party." 

"And you would do something different?" Castiel sounded amused.

"Hell yeah. I'd go somewhere warm, for one thing. Maybe a beach. Get one of those adirondack chairs. Cooler of beer." 

"A cooler of beer and a chair."

Dean shrugged as he turned up the long driveway. "Cas, I'm a man of simple tastes."

Castiel snorted then wriggled in the passenger seat, palms pushing at the fabric of his jeans. Dean took one glance at Castiel - or more specifically, his thigh - before riveting his gaze forward. For a moment his mind wheeled happily around the fantasy of placing his own hand on Castiel's leg, smoothing the fabric from hip to knee, and pressing him into the seat.

"Quit wiggling."

"These clothes are odd," Castiel said, the frown evident in his voice. "I'm finding it difficult to feel entirely comfortable."

"Cas. Man. You wear the same thing every damn day. Just live a little, alright? This Dumain guy makes everyone come in," Dean shuddered. "Couples costumes. It’s the best way to blend in. Get close to our suspects."

"I don't see why I couldn't go dressed in my usual attire. Claire tells me that I resemble a cartoon exorcist. Hmm. You could be..."

"Dude. Never listen to Claire. She's not even old enough to drink yet."

Castiel ignored him. "You could be Chas."

Dean chuckled. "I'm the sidekick, huh?"

"I wouldn't say sidekick."

"Oh yeah?"

"More like pain in the ass."

Dean looked sharply over at Castiel, surprised by the phrasing. Castiel wouldn’t look at him but laugh lines creased around his eyes, the corners of his mouth drawn tight and deliberately flat. Dean poked him in the side and the mask cracked. Castiel smiled. "You just described a sidekick, man. So, thanks for that. Anyway, cowboys are cool. Out in the world, nothing but the stars overhead. The romance of the range."

"The average lifespan barely topped thirty. I fail to see how that is considered romantic."

"That's not the point." Dean took a deep breath. "The point is, you look good."

"I do?"

Dean met Castiel's eye fleetingly and nodded. "Yeah. You do."

Castiel stopped fidgeting as a pleased smile spread slowly over his face. "Thank you, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. The Impala broke from the tree lined lane. Dumain's house sprawled like a gleaming beast with two white wings that curled around the center like a claw. Moonlight bright rolling lawn gave way to thickly overgrown woods beyond. The front lawn had been transformed into an impromptu parking lot, neat rows marked with fluttering orange tape and reflective lines painted onto the grass. There weren't many cars yet, so Dean parked near the house where it would be relatively quick to run to the Impala for different weaponry - or a quick getaway - should the hunt require it. He turned off the car and stepped out into the grass, boot slipping a little on the evening dew, and walked around to open the trunk. He removed two pistols, one with witch killing bullets and one with ‘good old fashioned bullet bullets’. He slid both into holsters at his hip before slamming the trunk shut.

For a moment he just breathed in the dusty scent of fallen leaves. Castiel stood next to the Impala surveying the house and Dean let himself drink in the sight. He’d hoped that helping to prevent the end of the universe would have earned him a tiny reward. Time to relax with Sam, get to know his Mom, time to just revel with Castiel while neither of them were buckling under the weight of curses or blackmail or war. But Castiel always managed to find himself a war, even if he had to bring it on himself. Dean knew he should blame Lucifer. Lying, manipulative Lucifer who used Castiel’s dormant faith to pick his prison’s lock. But Dean’s little seed of anger always seemed to go back to Castiel. Dean thought of the way Castiel could put on his mission face and draw away as easy as breathing and he burned.

"Shouldn't take long to take out this witch. Not with you here sniffing out hexes." Dean kept his tone light, flapped his coat over his guns, and walked around the car to Castiel. He took a deep breath then slung his arm over Castiel’s shoulder. It felt thinner and warmer without his trench coat. When Castiel jumped he said, “Couples party, remember?”

“Right.”

Fire flickered along Dean’s arm. “Ready?”

"Of course." 

Together they walked through the crunching leaves up to the house. 

A perky young woman doing her best impression of Elvira greeted them at the front door. She stood at a small podium bearing a clipboard and her eyes traveled slowly from Dean's boots up to meet his eyes. "Name?" she asked, one brow delicately arched.

Dean tipped his hat at her with a wink. "Winchester, ma'am."

Her eyes widened and the predatory look she had assiduously thrown their way instantly evaporated. "Oh! Yes, Mr. Dumain would like to speak with you right away." She pulled a cell phone from her cleavage and typed something into it, one handed. Her other hand, completely obscured by her ridiculous artfully tattered black sleeves, gestured gracefully inside, "He'll meet you just inside the entrance."

The foyer appeared to be nothing but a coat check but off to one side a black curtain fluttered. Through it Dean could hear music pulsing. Lights flashed through the billowing fabric. He raised his brows at Castiel and steered them both towards the curtain with trepidation. Any party helmed by Elvira immediately set him off kilter. It reminded him of a few years back when he and Sam had worked a case at a vampire-themed bar. There had been vampires, yes, but those were far outnumbered by vampire wannabes and worshippers who had spent the entire hunt hurling themselves between the Winchesters and their prey. It had taken Dean three hours to get all the damn body glitter off his machete and three damn weeks to clear it all out of Baby. "Sparkly vampires, my ass," he muttered and stepped through. 

The curtained entrance opened up on a large room split by pale marble pillars and flanked by a long bank of french doors overlooking the grounds. The room was cast largely in shadow with one section clearly marked off for dancing. Lights strobed over the floor, glancing off of velvety couches tucked into corners. A DJ lorded over this section, already filling the space with music even though guests so far were sparse. Interspersed throughout the room were tiny stages barely larger than a desk. The stages held vignettes that were clearly inspired by horror films. Just by the door lunged a bloodied man in a hockey mask wielding a chainsaw at head level to guests entering the party. Frankenstein’s monster and a Bela Lugosi Dracula statute snarled over the dance floor. Next to the DJ’s stage, a gaunt girl with long black hair climbed out of a television that flickered with static.

Castiel had slipped away from Dean’s arm and stood in front of Melanie Daniels cringing with her arms flung up in the air. A flock of murderous gulls spun lazily on a mobile above her. He tilted his head. “I will never understand human delight in the macabre.” He turned to look back at Dean. “Even you seem to like it and the things you have seen.” He shook his head.

“What, you think I should be watching puppies and rainbows in my spare time?”

“Something like that.” Castiel turned back to the statue. “You know, this reminds me of...” He squinted at Dean.

“A movie, Cas. It’s a scene from a movie. You probably know it from Metatron’s little info dump.”

“Well, I suppose so. But I was going to say it reminds me of Michelangelo.” 

It was Dean’s turn to tilt his head at the statute. “As in?”

“The sculptor, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean scoffed. “And why exactly does this remind you of Michelangelo?” After a lifetime spent with  _ Art Lessons with Sam _ , he had to fight his mind’s tendency to automatically wander at certain keywords. Keywords like “sculptor.”

“He was just terrified of birds. Used to run shrieking down the street, robes flapping. Of course, that always made it worse.”

“Uh, worse?” Sometimes he forgot how damn long Cas had been around. 

“You can imagine how his shrieking must have disturbed the birds from their roosts.”

“Right.” Castiel continued to squint at him, stone faced and then it clicked. “You’re shitting me,” he decided.

Castiel’s mouth edged into a small smile. “Yes, Dean, I am shitting you.”

Dean couldn’t stop his grin. “Cas,” he said, bumping his shoulder with his own. “You really had me going there for a second.”

“It was a joke, Dean,” Castiel informed him earnestly.

“Yeah, I know. Good one.” Carefully, he pressed his upper arm against Castiel, suddenly regretting wearing a coat.

Castiel leaned into him in return. Seconds later the moment was ruined by an anxious voice saying, "Winchester? Dean Winchester?"

Dean turned. "Dumain?" He asked the slightly balding zombie striding up to them.

The man heaved a breath as though he'd been holding onto it for a while. "Thank God you're here." He held out his hand to Dean who shook it slowly, then held out a hand to Castiel.

Castiel stepped out of Dean’s orbit and took Dumain's hand. "Nice to meet you." Dumain flinched at Castiel’s grip and Dean smothered a smile.  _ Shake hands like you mean business. _

"So Jody Mills has told me a little about you. Er, what you do. Thank you for coming here on such short notice." Dumain looked them up and down. "Nice costumes.”

"Yeah, well, a ghostbuster seemed a little obvious. Jody said you were experiencing strange phenomena. Odd noises, visions, threatening messages?"

Dumain nodded. “Last week was the last one. I answered the front door and there were just eyeballs. Like, human eyes. Everywhere. So of course I ran and when I go back there with my assistant there’s nothing there. Just like all the other times there was nothing on the step except this note.” He dug into his pocket pulling out several slips of paper. He sorted through them with fingers shaking, before thrusting out the whole bundle. Castiel reached out and took hold of them, long fingers sorting them straight and flitting through the pieces of paper. Dean peered over his shoulder as he did so and whistled. "Some pretty graphic threats in these." 

“I shall wear your lower intestine as a necklace,” Castiel read aloud from one of the slips. He raised his brows. “So we’re looking for a woman.”

“Uh...probably. I haven’t got the best track record in the world.” 

"Did Jody tell you our theory?"

"Yeah." Dumain looked down and laughed a little, as though embarrassed. "Look, I’ve gotta be honest here. This whole witchcraft thing seems kind of far fetched. I mean, magic?" He coughed. "But I was back in Sioux Falls visiting family when it... When they..."

Dean's eyes widened and a hot flush crept up his neck. "You were there when they came back."

Castiel looked between the two of them, eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth as though to ask a question. Dean shook his head minutely.  _ Later, Cas. _

Dumain cleared his throat. "Yeah. Kind of makes you a believer of...other forces. Anyway, when this stuff started happening here I tried talking to the local police. But they wouldn't believe a word I said. Didn't believe any of the weird shit I've seen. But I knew Jody would get it because of everything that happened back in Sioux Falls. She said you'd be able to stop whoever's been threatening me." With that out he seemed to relax a little, past the major hurdle of confessing his half belief in the paranormal. "Jody said you'd need some ideas for suspects and while I don't exactly have enemies… I’ve let Tina out there - my assistant, Tina, that is - know to let you know when these two people arrive.” He handed Dean a business card with the names of two women scrawled on the back.

Dean raised his brow. “These are?”

“Ex girlfriends.”

“And they’re coming to your party. Here? Tonight?”

“Well, yeah.” Dumain shrugged.

“I’m no relationship expert, but doesn’t inviting an ex to a party seem like a bad idea?”

Dumain shrugged off the question with a twitch of his shoulders. “Tina will text you when these guests arrive. Paired with a costume description, they shouldn't be too hard to locate. And then you can use your..." he waggled his fingers. "Whatever to figure out who’s doing this and get them the hell out of here." He tapped at the business card. "My number. Tina's number. Okay, I’ve got to go. Good luck!"

Dumain bustled off through the curtained entrance and Dean stared after him. “Well, that was abrupt.”

Castiel nudged his elbow. "We’d better get going," he said, placing his palm in the small of Dean’s back, fingers spread wide. "Got a lot of rooms to canvas."

"Right," Dean said. "Guess we'd better get to it." He didn’t protest as Castiel steered him on a circuit through the ballroom and then towards a doorway on the far end. Fake relationship. Real touching.  _ Ain’t gonna complain. _ As Castiel examined the main room for traces of magic Dean texted the names of their two suspects to Sam to do further research. "So what do you make of Gatsby?"

"Gatsby?"

"Dumain. The host." 

"He seems flighty. Scared."

Dean laughed. "Yeah. Guess I can’t blame him." He paused for a moment at the base of the stairs where a grinning skeleton pinned to the wall leered, jaw hanging open. “No weird magic vibes off of him?”

Castiel shook his head. “I couldn’t detect anything.”

”I hate witches.”

“As do I,” said Castiel with so much enmity in his tone that Dean had to laugh at it.

“For good reason, man.” To his disappointment, Castiel gave him a light push up the stairs and then dropped his hand. 

By the time they finished canvassing all the rooms in the upper story, Dean had just about had it with Dumain’s decorator. Shining skeletons pinned to the walls shed glitter on his coat sleeves, and somebody had gone overboard with fake cobwebbing, looping it over all the doorways so excessively that Dean decided it would be better to just tear it down before entering each room. As a result the hallway floor was piled with cottony cobwebs. At one point he had stopped stock still and asked, “Do you feel that, Cas? Like a cold spot?” 

Castiel, carefully touring the perimeter of the room on his search for hidden hex bags or dark alters, broke the intense scowl he directed at the furniture and laughed. He pointed at the ceiling where a chandelier of grinning skulls hid a fan that switched off and on as Dean walked past its sensor. "Fucking 'haunted houses'," Dean groused. He saw Castiel's smile broaden at his own use of air quotes.  _ It's catching. Damn.  _

In the last room of the upper story Dean slumped against the doorway. “Friggin’ nothing,” he groused. “No leads. No hex bags. No traces of magic or,” he tapped a silent EMF switched on in his pocket. “Or anything.”

Castiel paused in his circuit of the bedroom. His expression a still pond as it often was when he was thinking. Dean suspected it said something like,  _ I’ve seen continents form so why can’t you be patient for five minutes _ . He’d seen it before.

“No texts from Tina?”

“Nada.”

“Hmm. Well I suppose we could always head back to the party. I never checked the buffet.”

Dean grinned. Castiel had, of course, already checked the ballroom thoroughly. “You’re right.” He made a show of astonishment. “Better go make sure it’s safe.”

Not much later Castiel texted Sam about their lack of progress while Dean piled a delicate glass plate high with tiny hot dogs and what looked like a blueberry mini pie. The room had already half filled with carousers and the evening was still young. As the ballroom began to whirl, Dean decided that Gatsby had been the right nickname for Dumain. He settled against a back wall next to Castiel and dug into his plate with gusto.

"How is Mary?" Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged. His mom had acclimated remarkably well to her resurrection. The ease of her transition left him feeling deeply uneasy. His father had been the king of secrets. Dean was starting to suspect the same about his mother. "She’s fine. Couldn’t come along. She had something to take care of," he said and stuffed two hot dogs into his mouth before mumbling around the food, "she'll be back soon."

Castiel grimaced sympathetically, his head bowed slightly towards Dean. "You are all adjusting remarkably well, Dean."

“Yeah, well, you know me. Poster boy for well adjusted.”

Castiel snorted. “I suppose we’re well suited in that regard.”

Dean’s heart twisted a little bit at the phrasing. “Peas in a pod.”

Castiel considered him for a long minute. He leaned against a pillar and casually hooked his fingers in his front pockets. “Root and branch,” he said softly.

For the second time that night, Dean’s ears flushed.  _ Fire and air _ , he thought. In that unexpected soft space he asked, “so how you really doing, Cas?” His question emerged quietly, barely discernible against the thumping music. Castiel, with his angel ears, heard him just fine. 

“I’m fine.”

“Cas, come on. That’s the Winchester party line right there.”

Castiel shrugged. “I’ll be better once Lucifer is safely locked away again. Or dead.” His lips tightened. “I don’t care which one.”

“And when that’s done?” Dean watched the question spread out like thinly frozen ice. 

Castiel just looked at him, defiant and hopeless and unsure. Dean didn’t know what to say in the face of that so instead he said, "Yeah, that’s what I thought. Jesus, Cas. Just live a little. Take a vacation. We're all here, we're okay. And Lucifer, despite being the biggest bag of dicks since the big bang, is quiet. Can't you just-"

"What, Dean?" Castiel's words descended like a glacier.

"Never mind." Dean cleared his throat, downed three hot dogs in quick succession, and ended the conversation. 

_ And there it is, _ he thought bitterly. The old push and pull like they were magnets always facing the wrong way. His phone pinged in his pocket and he fished it out. “Samantha Kobolski. Sexy black cat with warlock,” he intoned. He looked over at Castiel, still leaning against the pillar, inscrutable. “Our first suspect has arrived. Let’s go.” He proffered his arm and Castiel took it, hand curled around Dean’s forearm, leg brushing Dean’s coat with every step.

Samantha Kobolski made a hell of a sexy cat. She even had the Eartha Kitt purr almost down. Her purr abruptly disappeared when the conversation started to curl around her ex-status with Dumain. “Have I met you before?” she asked, giving both Dean and Castiel a puzzled glance. “I’m sure I would remember.”

“Friend of a friend,” Dean said. He grinned his ladyslayer grin and watched her melt. The warlock didn’t look too happy, but whatever. The warlock wasn’t a suspect. “I heard it was a bad split. I’m surprised to see you here.”

She laughed. “Oh well, what breakup doesn’t suck? Dumain’s not bad. And he throws a killer party.”

Dean’s phone pinged again. He pulled it out, looked at the screen, then raised a finger to excuse himself. Kobolski lifted her hand and pretended to claw her farewell in the air, then tugged at her partner’s arm and melted away into the crowd. 

Dean leaned into Cas to be heard against the pounding music. “Anything?”

“No. I sensed no traces of magic. Is our second suspect here?”

Dean nodded and showed Castiel his phone.  _ Rishda Lo. Ironman. _ He looked towards the entrance for a hulking Ironman suit. Another thought came unbidden.  _ A sexy Ironman costume?  _ Dean shuddered. 

Rishda was a polite interviewee, even if her answers were a bit muffled beneath her (thankfully normal) Ironman mask. Her date, a masculine Pepper Potts, listened to their discussion with an expression of ever-increasing irritation. The conversation turned rapidly when Castiel brought up Dumain. 

“Oh, that fucker,” Ironman said darkly. “I hate that sonofabitch. I really do. As far as I’m concerned he can just die.”

“Oh,” said Dean, pleased to find such a convenient entry into her emotions. “So it didn’t end well.”

“Oscar here knows what he did.” Pepper Potts crossed his arms and gave a solemn nod. “He fucking killed my dog with his car. And then he tried to weasel out of it. So, yeah, it didn’t end well.”

Castiel, who’d been listening to the rant thus far quietly with his usual patient faraway expression said, “And yet you are still here. At his party. Why?”

"Fuck off, Brokeback," spat Pepper Potts, his voice low and derisive. He trailed a long, insulting gaze between Dean and Castiel before he said, “we’re not here for Alex. Come on Rishi.” He tugged at her arm, his glance falling warily on Dean. 

Dean suspected his face betrayed the stormcloud swelling inside that said  _ punch that asshole _ . It might alienate their suspect but fuck, it would feel good. He felt Cas lay a hand on his arm and slide it down to his clenched fist. Castiel wrapped his fingers gently around that fist. "It was nice talking to you," he said in a flat tone to the retreating couple.

"What a fucking...," Dean fumed through gritted teeth. "He has no idea..." He broke off. No idea of what? No idea who he was messing with - that was the most obvious point. But, Dean's heart twisted at this, also no idea that "Brokeback" didn't exactly apply. There was a time when he would have taken deep offense at the implication of having a relationship with another man. Now, it was the only thing he wanted. And, seemingly, one of the many things he could never have.

He pulled his hand away and took a step back from Castiel -  _ for some fucking breathing room _ \- and scrubbed at his face. “Nothing from those two either?”

Castiel shook his head. “I could detect nothing magical. They seemed a great deal angrier than the others, but I’m not convinced of their guilt.”

“Exactly.” Dean dug out his phone and texted Sam with  _ What’s the news? Suspects are washing out. _

“So what do we do now?”

“I guess we just have to wait. See if anyone makes a move for Dumain.” Dean sighed and looked over the crowded party. “I’m getting a drink.”

Castiel trailed him to the bar where Dean ordered a whiskey, and then out of a set of french doors and into the back garden. 

The garden was as lavishly decorated as the interior. Netted canopies of orange and white lights swooped like glowing cobwebs and the curling paths were pockmarked with bubbling lit cauldrons spewing dry ice mist. Shadows could be seen pressed tight among the hedgerows.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, man. I’m just tired.” Dean settled on a bench just outside the pool of light spilling from the patio and stretched out his legs. Castiel, after some nervous flexing of hands, settled next to him. Dean’s fingers clenched the cool glass.  _ Yes, there was that little flame of anger. _ He leaned forward so that their shoulders no longer brushed and he sipped at his whiskey.

He was aware that Castiel was looking at him. He could always tell. The angel’s gaze felt like a warm prickle down his side. “Quit staring, Cas. People will think we’re dating.”

There was a quiet rustle next to him, a small sigh as Castiel leaned forward so that Dean could see him in his peripheral vision. His gaze was heavy, sad. “Dean, I’m sorry. Are you-?” He broke off, mouthing words as though searching for something to say but discarding them before he could utter anything.

Dean shrugged and finished the whiskey in one long pull. He stood up, teetering his empty glass on the edge of a planter. “We’d better find Dumain.”

As they were re-entering the ballroom Sam texted.  _ Records all clear. No strange purchases. Nothing seems witchy. No criminal past.  _ “D’you get the feeling we’re missing something?” He sighed. “If we had any concrete clue at all I’d be the happiest guy in the world. This whole case is...frustrating.”

“Hmm,” Castiel murmured distractedly, though not necessarily in agreement. Dean looked at him. The angel seemed far away, lost in thought.

Finally, Castiel said, “We should check upstairs again.” He led the way, Dean following behind in silence.

Even this early in the party, Dean could see some of the doors along the hallway were already shut. He reached a hand towards Castiel’s shoulder, ready to deliver a joke, or rib him on his confusion from earlier in the evening. After a moment, Dean dropped his hand and planted it firmly into his pocket. "Patrol take two," he sighed and followed Castiel into the first open doorway.

Castiel had the door closed and his fists gripped on the lapels of Dean's coat before he understood what was happening. "Cas?" Dean exhaled and found himself in the space of the same breath being pushed back into the wall.

Castiel leaned in and kissed him like a military campaign, firm gaze and strong lips. He pressed his closed mouth to Dean's only briefly before Dean felt his tongue at his lips. He groaned at the sensation and let him inside. The tangle of teeth, tongue, and lips pulled at him like the moon on the ocean. Stoked him. Castiel’s fingers trickled down his chest to his belt, fingers slotting under his vest, through the gaps in his shirt, touching his skin. "Cas? What?" His lips felt heavy. It was hard to form words. "I thought we weren't doing this anymore." 

Castiel said nothing but simply advanced on his mouth again and Dean almost sank into it. Almost, except that little blaze of anger flared through him, sharp as a sunspot.  _ We tried this already. We tried this and you walked away. _ “Cas!” Dean spread his palms over Castiel’s chest and pushed at him, at first tentatively and then with a strength backed by fire. Castiel stumbled backwards. “The fuck is this, Cas?”

They had first done this under the oppressive weight of the Mark of Cain. Then, it had been dirty and dark and left them both a little more broken than before. After all, it was one thing to fuck your best friend. But it was another thing altogether to feel your darkness slowly poison one of the few truly good things in your life. After Amara, after everything, after that raw embrace in the graveyard, Dean had approached Castiel again. And again. Without the Mark it had been sweeter, more careful, more private. And then Castiel left on his hunt. “Distractions are dangerous,” he had told Dean. “Stopping Lucifer is what matters.”

“Cas,” Dean said again, his blood a cavalry stampeding through his veins. “What is this?” He dropped his head. “Fuck, Cas.”

Castiel’s voice was desperate, pleading in a way it had no right to be. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Trying to make you happy. Trying to make myself happy.” He stepped away and dropped his hands.

Dean leaned against the wall and stared at the floor, trying to ignore Castiel nervously flexing his hands in front of him. He didn’t think his legs would hold him if he tried to storm out. They should just do the hunt and leave. Let the silence settle around them in the car like a lead blanket until whatever fire Castiel kicked up in him smothered and died. Instead, he found himself telling the truth, “I don’t want you to go. I don’t ever want you to go.”

“Dean, I-”

“No, listen, Cas.” Dean looked up and something in his face must have stopped Castiel, because his mouth snapped shut and brows lifted. He suddenly looked vulnerable. Younger, if that was possible for a millennia old angel. “I get that you need to take care of Lucifer. I do. I get it more than maybe anybody else. But I need  _ you _ . And I don’t care about your guilt. Or your rage. Those two things are such a strong part of me I-” Dean shook his head. “But those only lead to dirt and darkness and fucking, bitter nothing. And I’m trying to find something brighter.” His laugh fell like glass in the room. “Hell, everybody keeps telling me life can be good. ‘Take time for yourself, Dean. Do what makes you happy, Dean.’ And I started to think maybe that bright thing was you. I get why you’re hunting but I can’t do this again. You’re the friggin’ sun, Cas. And my life is a dark fucking room. And I can’t let you get close only to have you go away again.” 

Castiel had cautiously inched forward while Dean spoke. He laid a careful hand on Dean’s lapel, smoothing it absently over his collarbone. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said in a hushed litany. He continued stroking his fingers lightly, gently, focus fixed inward. He sucked in air slowly, opened his mouth, lifted his eyes to Dean. 

Somebody screamed. 

It took a moment for Dean to register it, buried as he was in confusion and arousal so thick he couldn’t breathe. 

“Dean, I-” Castiel wavered like he had something to say. Like all he had to do was remove a dam and the words would come spilling out. 

Dean pushed himself from the wall and lunged for the doorknob. He flung open the door and they ran down the hallway. The scream had sounded close. He pulled out the gun with witch killing bullets, reaching for doorknobs, flinging them open, moving to the next room.

The victim was dressed as a doctor, and she sprawled bloody and alone in a room with the door flung wide. She lay on the floor, eyes wide and body jerking as blood escaped from a deep wound in her gut. 

"Fuck fuck fuck," Dean muttered as he set his gun down and pushed his hands at her abdomen in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. Blood seeped around his fingers. The floor was awash in it. And she trembled and trembled.

"Move," Castiel's curt order was accompanied by harsh fingers dragging at his shoulder. Dean collapsed backward at the force of it and watched, eyes stinging and the iron stench of blood swamping him, as Castiel healed her. 

She gasped the long, drawn breath of a soul being drawn back into the body. Her eyes darted around wildly, as though seeing them for the first time and tears welled from her eyes.

"It's okay,” Castiel murmured, gently pushing her to lie back against the carpet. "You're alright." He smoothed back her hair gently, rhythmically. "You're alright. You're okay."

Dean pushed himself up and leaned toward her only to see her flinch away from him, her eyes trained on his bloodstained hands. "Shit," he muttered, trying desperately to wipe them on his coat. "Sorry."

Castiel stroked her hair. "What’s your name? Can you tell us what happened?"

"Charlene. Uh. Char. I-" Her hands trembled. "I don't know. I was waiting in here, looking out the window. And then someone grabbed me by my throat." Here, she laid fingers against her neck, now healed of bruises. "And then there was…” She set a shaking hand on her abdomen. “I was... And then I woke up and saw you." Her voice broke on a sob. "What happened?"

"Listen," said Dean, avoiding the question and keeping his hands hidden in the folds of his coat. "We're going to find the person who attacked you. Is there anything you can remember?"

She reached up a blood smeared hand and rubbed her forehead slowly. "I was supposed to meet Alex up here. And I was just waiting for him. I was just looking out the window. I don't know. I don't know."

"You were supposed to meet Alex?" Castiel asked. "Alexander Dumain?"

She nodded, looked between them, and said with a little half gasp, "Oh god, Alex? Is Alex okay?"

Dean looked at Castiel. His gaze looked pinched, tense. "I’ll go find out. Cas, you good to stay with her while I track down Dumain?"

"Yes, Dean." Castiel grabbed his forearm briefly as Dean stood. "Be careful."

Dean nodded and went out into the hallway in search of their host. 

He finally found Dumain in a room just off the ballroom. Dumain sat perched on a dais, party guests loosely arranged along the floor holding hands. Candles lined the walls and formed a little waxen fire pit in the middle. Dean scrubbed at his hands, then hid them in his coat pockets. It was a Halloween party so he guessed there might be some leeway for blood. But just in case. He hovered at the doorway and tried to signal to the man. He was pretty sure Dumain had spotted him as soon as he walked into the room but instead the host closed his eyes and rolled his neck wildly and began to yell.

"Oh spirits! Come before us and tell us your secrets!"

"You've gotta be kidding me," muttered Dean. He knew spirits were real. Hell, he'd sat in on more than a few shitty or terrifying séances in his time. But he was pretty damn sure that Dumain didn't possess the gift. Upstairs, Castiel watched over Dumain’s date and somewhere in the house prowled a killer. 

Dumain began to shriek. "I see you spirit! I see you!" And then he opened his eyes, gave a short yelp, and stumbled backwards. This jolted him from the dais and he collapsed on the floor behind it in a heap of tattered clothing. 

"The fuck?" Dean skirted the room, ignoring the sudden swell of conversation as the other guests looked at each other in confusion. He reached Dumain who lay on the floor, still half buckled and legs in the air. His eyes were wide and red and he panted like a cornered animal.

"It's you?" He murmured over and over staring just over Dean’s shoulder. "How can it be you?"

Dean hauled him up by his arm and set him on his feet. "Dumain? Hey!" He snapped his fingers in front of the man's eyes and then, exasperated, gave him a firm backhanded slap. Dumain jolted and slowly he turned to look at Dean.

"It's Char. How can it be Char?"

Dean looked around. "Nothing here but a bunch of party goers watching a show." His grip tightened on Dumain's arm. "Come on," he directed, the pressure of his fingers locked into the man's arm saying that it definitely wasn't a request. He laughed at the guests, years of practiced subterfuge lending credence to his performance. “Man, too much to drink already. Come on buddy. Show’s over, folks.” Dean dragged Dumain out the door, not caring that his fingers were digging into the man’s arm. He pulled him aside in an alcove under the stairwell and hissed, “What the fuck was that?”

"I'm sorry," Dumain wheezed. He bent double and gripped his knees. 

“Shit, don’t throw up on me,” Dean muttered, shuffling backward and releasing Dumain’s arm. He tried to adopt a kinder tone. “Why’d you freak out?”

“I saw Char. Uh, Charlene. My date. Oh shit, I saw her bloody. I saw her dead.”

“Yeah? Well, news flash. Nobody else saw what you saw.” Dean gestured at his side. ”Was she cut up? Bloody here?”

“Yeah,” Dumain gasped. “How did you know?”

Dean’s mouth thinned. “She was attacked. She’s fine, but we’d better get back to her.” Dean pulled out his gun again, concealing it in the folds of his coat, finger near the trigger, safety off. He led the way upstairs.

Castiel had convinced Charlene to sit up on the bed so when Dumain arrived, it was to a massive bloodstain on the carpet and a dishevelled and bloody date curled in the arms of Castiel. The moment she saw Dumain she let out a fresh sob and flung herself into his arms.

Dean skirted around the couple and Castiel stood up as he approached. A smear of the woman’s blood marked his chin where she’d tucked into his embrace and Dean restrained himself from trying to rub it away. “Cas, I’m gonna do a little reconnaissance. See if I can find our two suspects. You got this locked down?” Castiel nodded and flexed his arm. Dean understood this to mean he would defend them, angel blade at the ready. “Okay. Don’t let them leave, alright? Call me if you need something. I won’t be long.” He set his hat on the bed and then slipped past the embracing couple and out into the hallway.

Systematically, he checked every room on the upper floor, securing the area in a cascading line from the bedroom all the way to the stairs, just in case her attacker lurked in one of the rooms. He was about to head down the stairs when he heard a strangled scream and something heavy thud to the floor just down the hall.

_ Cas. _

Dean raced back to the room, following the line of his weapon around the corner. Near the bed Dumain’s girlfriend knelt, giggling to herself and muttering a low stream of curses. Dean barely paid attention to her. He raced for the black-booted twitching feet just visible on the other side of the bed. “Cas?”

Castiel lay on the floor, shaking from head to toe. His face was pale and his mouth drawn in a rictus of pain. Dean rested the handle of his gun on Castiel’s shoulder and scooped his other hand to cradle his cheek. “Cas, what the hell happened?” The gaze Castiel trained on him shifted to just over his Dean’s head. Dean instantly pulled back and swung around in one smooth motion, gun cocked and ready. Dumain loomed behind him, his shirt fluttering open. 

Dean flinched as something warm and wet sprayed on his face. And then, slowly, Dean reeled back onto his heels. As though from far away, he felt Castiel’s tremoring legs kicking against his own. Dumain stood before him, bloodied shirt ripped open. A leathery, disembodied hand dangled from his chest. The hand had great, green talons dug deep into his skin. It dangled like a pendulum and pulsed slowly as though it breathed. Pale, green liquid dripped from a puckered hole just below the middle knucklebone.

“Fuck,” Dean said and then giggled at the sound of his own voice. “You got something on your chest man.” He brushed his own with the barrel of his gun. “Right there.” Oh god, he was hilarious. Dean toppled over onto Castiel’s legs, laughing, as liquid dripped down his face and his body filled with warmth and lightness and joy. He dropped the gun in favor of clutching Castiel’s legs. His really, really nice legs.

Dumain grabbed Dean by his coat and hauled him into his chest so that Dean’s back was pressed next to the hand. The fingers twitched as his cheek brushed them and Dean shook with laughter again. 

“What the fuck are you,” Dumain demanded in a high chorded voice, his gaze trained on Castiel. On the floor Castiel trembled, hands drawn up in claws, face taut with pain and rage. 

Dean looked at Castiel and his heart swelled until it was bigger than the house. Hell, bigger than the whole damn state of Minnesota. “Hey, babe, you’re cute,” he told him. It felt really, really important to tell him this right away. “But kind of grumpy.” Dean lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy.” He felt something sharp against his ribs.

“Shut up,” Dumain demanded. “I don’t know what the hell that thing is but I could smell the difference right away when I met you downstairs. The power coming off of it. That hex bag I shoved in his pocket should have turned your friend into a pile of ash in just a few minutes.” Dumain shook Dean and the blade scratched through his shirt and along his side. He lowered his head so his mouth pressed against Dean’s ear. “Tell me, boy. What is it?”

“First of all,” Dean said through the electric sparkler of his mouth, each word exploding in front of his eyes as a golden firework display. He stared at it, entranced. “Would it kill you to eat a mint? Second, he’s a he. Pronouns matter. Third, I’m totally going to cut you into little, tiny pieces and feed you to a dog for this, you little fuck. As soon as I figure out how to make my arms move.” He giggled again, helplessly. “Also, your hand? S’weird man.”

On the floor, Castiel’s tremors began to fade. Slowly, he wrenched his arms away from his body and lowered them to the floor to lever himself upright. He looked sick - pale, sweaty, and drawn. But his eyes were narrowed in calculating challenge and though he swayed, he managed to stay upright. He grabbed the gun from the floor and trained it on Dumain.

Dumain dug his blade into Dean’s side. “Back up,” he said curtly. He started to drag Dean backwards towards the doorway, one arm hooked around his throat. Dean scrambled to comply, desperate to please even as part of his brain roared against it. His legs wouldn’t cooperate though and he kicked and stumbled and choked against Dumain’s arm. 

“You’re  _ manu mali _ ,” Castiel said. The gun shook in his hand.

Dumain stopped. “You know what I am?”

Castiel blinked slowly and his eyes flicked as though consulting a reference book. “The  _ hand of evil _ . A race of monster with the ability to attach their hand to their prey, thereby controlling their movements, giving them visions.” His eyes widened. “All those things Dumain saw were visions you created?”

Dumain let out a strange fluting laugh. “Oh yes, I’ve been giving bad waking dreams to this little sad sack for a few months now. You think I’d really go out and harvest a bunch of eyeballs or waste real magic on him? Please. It was all supposed to lead up to tonight. I control him, he kills his girlfriend, he goes mad in front of literally everyone that matters, and sweet revenge is mine. Instead I find out he’s invited a fucking hunter and his pet,” he spat.

Castiel shook his head and grunted. “I thought your kind were extinct. Where are you? Who are you? You must be in this house. I don’t believe the mental connection goes very far.” His nostrils flared and he sniffed the air. “Tina?”

Dean huffed a note a surprise. “Elvira?” He felt Dumain stiffen. 

“How the hell did you know?”

“Thought I smelled something off about you at the door,” Castiel said. “But I couldn’t place it.”

Castiel looked disappointed and Dean just wanted to hug him and tell him...tell him... Well, tell him that he couldn’t smell  _ every _ threat and he shouldn’t feel bad about it. He felt a giggle try to seize through him again and very sternly pushed it down by focusing on the gun in Castiel’s shaking hand, which was trained at him and Dumain. 

“Alex was mine,” Dumain said in a low voice. “He was mine and then he fucking ended it. Wanted to keep our relationship professional. He said he couldn’t lose me. He had no idea who he was fucking dealing with.”

“I’m sure that was very trying,” Castiel said slowly. “Tina. I know you can’t control Dumain and your body at the same time. You can either let him go or-”

Dumain laughed. ”Or what? You’ll kill me? Pretty sure you’re going to try that no matter what. You’re right. Enough true confessions. Here’s what’s going to happen. Your boyfriend here is going to accompany me downstairs. I’ll reclaim my hand from Alex and be on my way. I won’t even kill him. I’d honestly rather leave him alive and terrified. Everybody wins.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked nervously between Dumain, the doorway, and Dean half choking against Dumain’s chest. “Or I could shoot you,” he said uncertainly.

“You know if you shoot my hand it’ll tear straight through Alex, right? Honey, go for it. I don’t give a fuck about Alex now. Honestly, you’ll be saving me the trouble. You try to rush me and this guy gets a blade in the heart.” To illustrate his point he dug his knife into Dean’s side hard enough to make Dean gasp. He resumed dragging Dean across the floor, holding him up against his chest.

Dean held onto that thought.  _ I’m blocking his chest. I’m blocking the hand. _ “Cas,” he said. “D’you know I’m blocking the hand?” He slumped to the floor, knife scraping along his side, chin catching on Dumain’s arm until his own weight proved to be too much and Dumain released him.

As Dean slid he watched Castiel drop the gun. Silver manifested in the air, then there was silver against the black of Castiel’s shirt, and silver landed with a wet  _ thwock _ above his head. 

Dean slumped forward onto his knees as Castiel’s angel blade thumped to the carpet beside him. The hand writhed on it and as he watched, it twitched and then fell still. Behind him the pressure of Dumain’s legs fell away. He tried to turn his head. Was Dumain dead? Was he raising a knife to kill him? Ugh, turning his head was too much work.

And then Castiel was there, his shaking hands cradling Dean’s head. Dean leaned into the touch. “Hey, babe.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel sounded almost amused. “Can you do something for me?”

Dean hummed, content and warm in his Castiel hand cocoon. “Yeah. Anything for you.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Can you take this hex bag out of my back pocket, please, before it kills me?”

Dean snapped his eyes open. “Shit.”  _ Focus _ , he told himself sternly.  _ Focus _ . He dug his hands into Castiel’s pocket and it was so warm and tight and...  _ Focus. _ His fingers closed on a bundle of cloth. He pulled it out, shook the hand off of Castiel’s angel blade, and used it to tear the hex bag to pieces.

Castiel slumped with a long sigh. From behind Dean, Dumain spoke groggily. “What the hell just happened?”

“You were being controlled by a  _ manu mali _ .”

“A what?” Dumain’s voice had that edge to it that Dean knew was a precursor to a full on meltdown. 

Dean decided he would help out Castiel’s explanation. “Your assistant Tina was a monster out to ruin your life. And Cas here killed Thing. The, um, hand.” He held up the angel blade, streaked with green and clumping herbs. ”And then I tore this bag.”

“Spearing the hand while Tina’s consciousness resided in it caused a critical breakdown,” Castiel said drily. ”I expect we’ll find Tina dead downstairs.”

Dean smiled. Man, that was tidy. He could hear Dumain sputtering behind him and Charlene still giggling helplessly from beside the bed. “Hey, Cas?” Something occurred to him. It was a Very Important Thought and he chased it so it wouldn’t escape. “I bet Tina gave good hand jobs.” He let himself sink down to the floor then, convulsed with laughter.

Castiel rolled his eyes.

 

  
**October 31, 2016**

Dean groaned as he sank into the passenger’s seat of the Impala. “I can’t believe I was monster roofied,” he said grinding his palm against his forehead.

Castiel slid quietly into the driver’s seat and Dean handed him the keys with a tired sigh. “Thanks for driving, man.”

“Are you feeling better now?” Castiel started the car and turned it out onto the drive. It hadn’t taken too long for Dean to reign in his laughter after Castiel had killed the  _ manu mali _ . Whatever poison the monster’s hand spat in his face wore off quickly but it left a hell of a headache. 

“Just peachy.”

Castiel steered the Impala down the driveway, the first silvery bit of dawn highlighting the gentle fog that lay over the woods. Behind them the house party raged on. Dumain had promised to wait an hour before calling the cops on Tina’s body. They’d passed her on their way out, slumped over her podium. With her arms akimbo and sleeves pushed up, it was easy to see the stump where a hand should have been.

Dean texted Sam the outcome as they left the party behind, cowboy hats in the backseat and silence between them. 

A little ways down the road Castiel turned into a field. He parked the car and switched off the engine and lights, then turned towards Dean, brow furrowed. Dean looked away and stared out at the field watching the fog as it danced over shorn cornstalks. “We should talk about what happened tonight. I owe you an apology.”

“Don’t apologize, man.” Apologies never fixed any damn thing, in Dean’s experience. He took a shaky breath.

“Dean.”

“What I said before? I just worry about you. But hey, man. You can take care of yourself. I mean, fuck. You’re an angel, right? Even today with that witchy mojo dragging you down you still saved my ass.” He tried to summon his rousing speech voice. “So you just get out there and you kick Lucifer’s ass, okay?” He slapped Baby’s dash and summoned up a smile and the will to look Castiel in the eye.

Castiel sat with one leg half crooked on the seat. The lines on his face were soft and sad. “I’m sorry.” He raised his hand and then dropped it. He inhaled deeply and the sound of it fluttered as though he trembled. “One day you’re going to die.”

“Excuse me?” Dean huffed out an incredulous laugh. 

“I’m not welcome in Heaven and one day you’re going to die and I won’t be able to follow.”

This was so unexpected Dean didn’t know what to say. He confronted his mortality on an almost weekly basis. The thought that it gave anybody pause was, frankly, astonishing. He crooked his mouth in a grin he didn’t feel. “Well, according to Billie we’re destined for nothing, so—”

“I’ll deal with Billie,” Castiel said darkly and for a moment he looked as dangerous as a blade. Dean felt his neck flush and was grateful, once again, for the half cover of dawn. “My point is...” Castiel trailed off. “What I’m trying to say is... Dean. I’m not afraid of losing you. I know I’m going to lose you. When I say you are a distraction, I don’t mean you disturb me. I mean,” and he leaned forward, his voice so low it rumbled the air between them. “I would tear down a solar system for you. I would tear down Heaven. And that is terrifying me.”

Dean wouldn’t have felt more winded if Castiel had slammed a sledgehammer into his chest. Slowly, his mind scrambled over Castiel’s declaration. Something in his face must have betrayed his confusion because Castiel bowed his head and placed his hands in studied nonchalance onto his knees. He sat absolutely still, like a bird preparing for flight. 

The weight of their history together - the catastrophes and betrayals - pressed in on Dean. Castiel wasn’t wrong. The devotion, the need that pervaded him, was terrifying. Dean gasped and realized that he had been holding his breath. Shakily, he exhaled. “So what?”

“Excuse me?” Castiel looked up, his brows furrowed. It clearly wasn’t the response he expected.

“So the fuck what,” Dean said. It was his turn to lean forward and burn the air between them. “I’ll do the same for you. You just watch me.” He gazed at Castiel in challenge, pulse pounding and ready for a fight. Castiel shook his head minutely and looked down at the seat between them. Dean felt the thunder of his refusal ricochet around the car. 

And then Castiel looked up. “Okay,” he said

“What?” Dean’s brain fumbled the word.

“Okay,” Castiel repeated and this time he smiled. “I’m in.”

“You’re in?” Dean felt the challenge fall away from his face and his mouth worked as though trying to get out words. Finally, he said, “Then why aren’t you kissing me right the fuck now?”

Castiel jerked a little, flushed in the gray light and said, “I didn’t want to presume.”

“Christ, Cas.” Dean wound his fingers through the gaps in his shirt, pulled him close and sank into his lips and his breath and the warmth of his skin. 

Eventually, Dean pulled away. Sunlight trickled into the car, illuminating the dash. He licked his lips, eyes steady on Castiel. “We should probably get back. Sammy’ll wonder. You’ve probably got shit to do.” He barely recognized his own voice, he felt so tightly wound with want. 

Castiel leaned forward and touched the tip of his nose to Dean’s ear. "I'm taking that vacation now," he whispered and his tongue reached out and ran along the soft skin behind Dean’s ear. Castiel used his teeth to scrape along the lines of Dean’s neck and Dean moaned quietly, and then louder as Castiel pushed him into the seat, tongue pressing into his skin, clever fingers working the buttons of his vest.

“Okay,” Dean breathed. He ran his hands from Castiel’s shoulders, down his chest, and to the edge of his belt. His fingers gripped the fabric of Castiel’s shirt and untucked it so he could run his hands up and around his ribs and along his lean, muscled back. Dean let his head loll along the seat back as Castiel worked him with his tongue and teeth.

Dean’s hands slipped down along Castiel’s abdomen and under fabric as far as he could reach and it was the angel’s turn to catch his breath and moan. It stoked a fire in Dean and he busied himself with Castiel's lips and hands and skin, desperate to release the energy before it burned him alive.

Under Castiel’s ministrations Dean’s shirt fell open and Castiel bent his head and licked a promise down Dean’s torso, fingers scraping down either side and teasing out so much sensation that Dean bucked uncontrollably. 

So it was time to turn the tables. Dean pushed and Castiel fell, letting Dean open his shirt and fumble at his belt buckle. Castiel sucked in a sharp breath as Dean mouthed along his hip, then gripped his hand in Dean's hair and pulled him up and half on top of him. He bit Dean’s earlobe, tugging gently with his teeth, and then palmed Dean's dick through his pants.

Dean jumped. "Fuck, Cas." His breathing was fragmented. He was losing control and they'd barely started anything at all. "Fuck." Dean pushed into Castiel's hand. If he couldn't find the words to say how good it felt, he could damn well show it. He moaned and then pants were undone and shirt fabric ripped. The car was too close and too cramped for two grown men but when they both finally lay half bare and pressed together on the seat no force in the world could tear them apart. 

The Impala rocked in the field as the rising sun burned the haze away.

 

  
**October 31, 2016** **  
** **Later that morning**

They touched too much at breakfast, feet tangled beneath the table and shoulders bumping. Or maybe it was the way Dean blushed or the way Castiel smiled - actually smiled. 

Or possibly it was the positively dirty way Castiel licked syrup from Dean’s fork.

Either way, Sam eventually threw down his napkin. “I’m not riding in the car when you’re like this,” he declared. “I’m not.” He tossed down some money and leveled a shrewd gaze at them.

“Sammy, what?”

“I’m getting a room for the night at the Loon Inn. I suggest you do the same at any other goddamn hotel.” He smiled. “I’m happy for you but for god’s sake—” He sighed. “Text me when you’re ready.”

Dean and Castiel watched Sam’s retreat from the restaurant in silence. Dean turned to Castiel who shook his head slowly. 

“Dean, I’m—”

Dean interrupted him. “You know what I think?” Castiel just looked at him, eyes wide and worried. Dean leaned in and flicked his gaze along Castiel’s rumpled cowboy shirt. “I think we should take some of this syrup back to the hotel with us.” He lifted his brows in promise and was rewarded when a smile bloomed on Castiel’s face.

“Okay,” said Castiel. “I’m in.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, readers! I hope you enjoyed this story. Cowboy Dean is my aesthetic. 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) @whichstiel.


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